


Kind Rituals

by GloriousLittleKoala



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Healing, Tsunderes, Vegeta loves his wife but can't admit it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:15:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25708042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GloriousLittleKoala/pseuds/GloriousLittleKoala
Summary: Rituals are a big part of Vegeta's life. But they're always kindest when Bulma is around.
Relationships: Bulma Briefs/Vegeta
Comments: 6
Kudos: 83





	Kind Rituals

**Author's Note:**

> I've recently watched this show and the "My Bulma" scene still hits me hard apparently.

Vegeta knew his gaze was lingering longer than what was necessary on his wife this morning. It was a routine, really. A ritual he found himself adapting to quickly as his mornings became filled with the noise of Bulma's soft breathing, intermingling with the soft crinkling of the sheets as she pressed closer to his body. 

It was dark in the room, most of the sun's rays blocked by the heavy, dark curtains that covered the wide windows. Bulma insisted on the curtains, claiming that it was necessary for her beauty sleep. Vegeta rolled his eyes then, however, he found himself quickly growing fond of them. A few sliver of light managed to pass the curtains. It landed on her naked back, illuminating smooth skin and the soft, fine hair at the base of her neck. Her hair was ruffled, imperfect in a way that he rarely sees on Bulma.

By now, the blanket had fallen pass her chest, resting on the gentle slope of her waist. Vegeta rubbed the last trace of sleep from his eyes as he pushed himself up, back resting against the headboard. He tugged on the blanket, resting it across Bulma's chest. Yet another ritual he adapted on this planet, he noted. 

He was always the first one awake. Remnants of a ritual from his old life. A life that didn't really allow him a moment of rest. It was a life full of battle after all. A life in which recklessness and being on the verge of death was strength. Cruelty was power. Compassion was unnecessary. Being too relaxed was outright dangerous.

He was proud of that. Proud for being the Saiyan prince devoid of compassion. The prince that found enjoyment in killing. The one that tore families apart, made fun of people's suffering. It was a life where inflicting pain was his favourite ritual. 

But it's been years since he found himself here. In this woman's cotton and silk sheets, often wrapped in her small arms, her lips pressed to his skin, often his scars. Slow, evening rituals that he had come to adore as much as the rituals that adorned his morning. 

If his father could see him now, he would be furious. Nappa and Raditz would have ridiculed him. Losing to a traitor saiyan and then finding a home among earthlings, a race so weak that Kakarot cannot help but have to lose his life for them. And here he was, one of its protectors, a father and a husband. 

Bulma groaned softly, turning around to gently grasp at his wrist. Her blue eyes were half open, looking at him through the blurriness of exhaustion. "It's Sunday," she murmured. "Sleep more." 

"I have to train," he replied, voice harsh and strong. He was scared after all. Scared of the next danger that may come to harm the life he had grown so attached to. The life he would give up his pride, his sanity -even the beating of his heart - just to protect. Nobody knew when the next danger will come. 

Bulma simply quirked her plump lips into a smile, shuffling closer to his thighs and throwing an arm over him. 

"No, you don't," she said underneath her breath. "It's Sunday. You stay on Sundays."

Vegeta wanted to rebuke her statement. However, it was a ritual. He moved back under the sheets, her arm falling over his chest where his skin and his beating heart suddenly felt warm. "See?" She kissed his shoulder, her lips falling unto a scar. "It's a ritual." 

It is a ritual. 

Her lips landed on another scar as he felt a small hand intertwine with his. "I love you," she murmured into his skin, her voice full of meaning and purpose. As if she was trying to paint his battle scars over with adoration. As if she wanted to erase his past with her love. 

Silly, he thought. His rituals back then, no matter how cruel, led to this. Kind rituals that she has given him. Kind rituals that he never thought he would experience. Rituals he's still not sure he deserves.

However, instead of questioning it further, he squeezes her hand. Closing his eyes, he let her bury herself into his side. "I know, woman."


End file.
